When We Are Gone
by LCFC
Summary: Decades into the future how does the world remember heroes?


_I don't own them – bah humbug!_

**When we are gone**

They find the car first. It is old, very old, built in a time so long ago that it is almost invaluable. It is in good condition, considering its age, dull and dust encrusted, but still in one piece; the seats are glistening leather, no one uses that anymore, and the interior is full of dirt and grime, but it is easy to see the box of old tapes slung on the dash, to see the sweatshirt that had been flung haphazardly into the back seat before the occupants left. Lifting the boot, they pause for a moment, gazing in awe at the old fashioned weaponry, the guns and knives, now rusted with age. A journal, so old it might crumble if touched, is lifted reverently with tweezers and plastic gloves. Someone puts it in clear plastic and takes it off somewhere, for research.

The woods are overgrown; no one comes here anymore. People prefer the city these days, the bustle of life, the constant busyness. Once children played here, but there are whispers – were whispers – that the woods are haunted and although no one really believes in ghosts anymore, no one really wants to find out if they are right or wrong.

They find the first body under the shade of a very old oak; mostly bones, but a few fragments of hair and clothing cling. The cotton is very old, worn and blue; they are sure, by the size of the bones that this is a man's skeleton and it has been here for several decades. They don't want to move the bones at first, some of them are squeamish but they are researchers, they are looking for answers, for something that will tell them what life was like before and, finally, they lift the body, gently easing it into the bag they have brought. Something flickers in the light and one of them reaches forward gingerly, picking up the silver amulet that still hangs loosely around what was once a neck. The metal is heavy, fascinating and this random object seems somehow magical. It is placed, with the same caution as the journal, in a clear bag and those who see it are driven to pick up their cell phones and ring others, just to prove they were there.

The second body is not far from the first and by its position it is easy to see that this person dragged themselves this far; there is an old, broken cell clutched in long boned fingers and wisps of brown hair still clinging to the skull. These bones are bigger, longer than the other and they can see that this man was taller than average and that his leg and arm were broken which is why he could only crawl. One of the women smothers a sob and someone hands her a tissue. No one tells her she shouldn't cry; standing here; in the middle of some sort of enchantment, it seems somehow fitting.

They have to leave the car for the experts, but they can't help but touch it one last time; seeing it here; in these woods makes it painfully real and they take several photographs on digital cameras and holographic image takers. They want proof that this is how it was and they need proof to convince others that the legends, the stories, the oral history was all true.

They don't want to touch the bones much; they know they have to be cleaned, examined, genetic testing done and dusted, but they are reluctant and almost shy, as if they are being watched, studied, tested and found wanting. There are usually few spectators for this kind of work but today there are fifty maybe more and they all watch in silence; some with bowed heads, others with wide, respectful eyes. This is living history and they are part of it.

There are dark shadows in the hallways and it is colder than normal. The bones are laid respectfully in the morgue, one body next to the other, as if they know they are laying themselves open if they dare to separate them. The journal is taken out and laid gently on the table; no one touches it; no one dares but everyone knows what it is and what it will say. Tomorrow they will take out the bones and they will salt and burn them; it is antiquated, old fashioned, foolish. No one cares much for old superstitions, but this is different, this is real and they know better than to ignore it.

Those who talked about what the world was like before were often mocked; they were old, sad, not right in the head. The sun always shone now and the world was a safe place to be, it had always been so, it couldn't have been any different – could it? Now they were forced to take a step back, to listen to the old ones and to see the sense in their words. Long ago there was good and there was evil and for a while evil walked the earth until those that lay so quietly in their pristine morgue took matters in hand and destroyed the evil, leaving light and hope in their midst. What once had been hearsay and legend was now truth; cold and undeniable; they had evidence now, but it was not just the physical, the clear pictures of an old black car and a crumbling leather journal. They had seen it and felt it with their own eyes and senses and, here in the darkness, they could feel it still. They could feel the magic, the enchantment, the wonder that had been dead for decades. In reality they had not needed to look, for the truth had been there in their world all along.


End file.
